Five Steps to the Perfect Wine (or Romance)
by BlackRoseGirl666
Summary: Spain and South Italy fall in love in steps that may or may not be comparable to those that go into making wine, if Spain were to be asked. Other nations stumble around them, slightly amazed.


_**The Steps of Making Wine (or Something Better)**_

**_1\. Pick choice ingredients. _**

When he kisses Romano during the traditional, After-World-Meeting bar crawl, Antonio pretends that it was the way the Italian's eyes sparkled in the dingy light that persuaded him to do it. He tries to pretend that the desolate interest in true, American-blue eyes has no impact on his actions. He forces himself to believe that the hot, English voice in his ear is not part of his motivation. That the jealous, vaguely-Napoleonic French glare he can feel on his back is in no way important, in no way a reason for his actions.

(_He wouldn't pretend for anyone else. He knows that the kiss would still be good if he didn't, still be wanted. He pretends because this is Romano, and, at the bottom of his heart, everything Antonio Fernandez Carriedo has ever done has always been for the benefit of Romano Vargas, and he won't be stopping now._)

Romano – for all the bitter grapes he carries around in his hands, clasped tight like prayer beads – melts against him sweetly, softly. Lithe fingers calloused by sculpting tools and fountain pens wind in the Spaniard's hair, lips like red grapes plush against Antonio's until he feels the questing eyes fall away. They are uninterested, now that Antonio (not the "caustic, cranky" Romano) is off the proverbial table.

A rush of excitement zips through Spain's blood, curling his lips as he leans to press different kisses across the Italian's throat. Suddenly, he doesn't need to remind himself that this isn't about warding off un-wanted attentions anymore.

Later, he'll wonder if it ever truly was.

**_2\. Cleanse carefully._**

The next time _it_ happens, Romano is soaking wet. His fashionable suit swollen with water, hair falling unkempt into his eyes, not quite hiding the blank, uncaring set of his face. A cigarette is laced between the fingers of one frigid hand, and Spain almost smacks it to the dirt on reflex, before something stops him. Maybe it's the artisan bit of him, appreciating the paradox the cigarette presents with the crumbling cathedral in the background.

They don't exchange words, never do outside of the meeting room, not since the late nineteen-somethings (not even now that they are involved in whatever _it _is). That's why he's surprised when Spain hears Romano's voice stretch across the air between them, filling in the spaces left by falling raindrops before new ones have a chance to claim them.

It's not a surprise when they wind up back in the hotel room, eager lips drinking up whatever rainwater is left, but the new warmth in Romano's eyes and the care in Spain's smile is appropriately stunning.

**_3\. Crush until impurities may be strained._**

Spain doesn't want to admit that he'd expected to fuck this up; but, to be truthful, yes, he had. What he _truly_ doesn't expect is the ashy taste in his mouth when he turns to his right and doesn't see Romano there, the squalid ache in his heart that sounds when his hand drifts to the cool, unoccupied side of the bed, or the enraged Canadian he finds at his door two days after Romano left, vows of avoidance falling rapid-fire from his lips.

The last one he doesn't consider much of a threat (after all, the boy had only ceased to be a colony how long ago?), but a broken hand and black eye later. he remembers that this is the _boy_ Germany still has nightmares about, who'd tamed Gilbert into monogamy, and who kept America from doing anything _too_ heavy-handed. He is also, apparently, a very close friend of Romano's.

It's mid-way through the blond's rant when Spain realizes he very badly needs to fix things with Romano. Obviously, what they have is more than a fling, as he'd feared – if that were true, he's sure he would have started running by now.

**_4\. Ferment until just right, be __patient__._**

Apologizing to Romano is a thing easier said than done. The other nation has more trust issues than his museums have artwork, more anger than his streets have blood. The Apology (which seems to be for far more than what sent Romano running out of Spain's room three night ago) starts with flowers and ends with heartfelt declarations for the entire world (literally) to witness. It is by far the most spectacular romantic escapade any nation representation has gotten involved with since France started paying Shakespeare to write sonnets about England, and by the time it's over, Spain can't decide if Romano accepts his invitation to be boyfriends because he's too embarrassed to let Antonio's wooing go on, or if it's because he genuinely forgives him and wants to be with Spain again.

Either way, Antonio decides he doesn't particularly care so long as Romano remains in his arms.

**_5\. Enjoy._**

The firelight makes the last swallow of red wine in Spain's glass glow. It is the end of the bottle he and Romano had been splitting back and forth, but Spain doesn't much mind. Romano,_ his lover_, is passed out against his chest, wrapped in three different blankets as snow drifts down lazily outside the window. Antonio can't help but think he'd still be content even if what was in the glass was the last sip of wine on Earth.

They are at England's, of all places, in the manor that's usually reserved for the Nations' Halloween Ball. Apparently, the guest list for the joint Commonwealth-Francophonie Christmas party became a little out of hand this year, what with everyone wanting to bring their significant others along, so England and France decided to just open the entire thing up as a world event. Spain finds it a little sweet, actually. It's nice to see the world getting along together for the holidays, even if certain nations in attendance don't actually celebrate the specific occasion. They'd just finished a massive version of Secret Santa, and now everyone was simmering down, finding the cliques and lovers and family they wanted most to spend time with.

Romano shifts a little and Spain smiles, pressing a kiss against his hair. A grumble of "Quit it, bastard" escapes from the cocoon and Spain merely chuckles, pulling Romano closer against him. A couple other nations also in the room smile to themselves and tamp down the little flickers of want in their eyes by taking a draft of their alcohol of choice, letting the whiskey-gin-beer-vodka sooth them. Spain vaguely remembers being like that, all those years ago, eyes always scanning to see who might be interested, sometimes acting on a hunch to avoid the eyes of others.

No one can say that nations ever find love in a normal way, he thinks, looking around. Snuggled in the window seat are Prussia and Canada, who brewed a romance in the shadowed consequences of a horrific war. Finland is settled in Sweden's lap, giggling like there wasn't a history of bloody crusades between them. Francis (who still can't seem to deiced which type of rose he loves the most, if he loves either at all, or only both together) leans against the doorway, eyes trained on England and America, who have passed out in a drunken heap together.

Romano makes a sleepy sound, and Antonio whispers a pray of thanks that they find it at all.

Tipping back the last of his wine, he sits the glass on the hardwood floor, too comfortable to try and get it on the coffee table, and snuggles down into England's weirdly comfortable couch. Christmas is tomorrow, after all, and the faster they sleep, the quicker Spain will get to see how Romano reacts to his gift.

He just hopes Canada doesn't feel the need to break his hand again.

* * *

**Another cross-posted one-shot, beta'd by the amazing TheVastEmptiness! Tell me what you think and give me a prompt if you have something you'd like to see!**

**Sincerely,**

**BlackRoseGirl666**


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